


Snap Left in Your Garters

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Dom John, Established Relationship, Foot Jobs, M/M, Rough Sex, Sub Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You should see your face when you let me hurt you,” John murmurs. “Christ, I think about it all the time; I’ll remember it even when I’m so old I can hardly remember anything else.” He brings his hands up to hold Sherlock’s head steady, kisses the corners of his mouth. “I can’t think of anything more amazing than you letting me take that brilliant mind of yours and slow it down, pull it apart.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap Left in Your Garters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2impostors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2impostors/gifts).



> This is an established D/s relationship and as such there is no kink negotiation. Standard disclaimer regarding safe, sane, and consensual approaches to real life acts applies.
> 
> Inspired by [a piece of art by detectivelyd](http://detectivelyd.tumblr.com/post/131111737169/detectivelyd-full-size-just-because-i-wanted) yet again. (nsfw)

John is used to seduction by Sherlock happening quickly, unexpectedly, and with an alarming lack of subtlety.

This time Sherlock has stripped out of his suit when he climbs into John’s lap, after they’ve been home scarcely ten minutes, and kisses John so fiercely that it leaves him feeling lightheaded.

“You. Ah—” John attempts to express some sort of coherent thought, but his lips are tingling and his senses are too full of Sherlock to keep up at the moment.

“I’m naked,” Sherlock says helpfully. He steadies himself with a hand on John’s arm and another in the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck before he starts to kiss John again. John’s chair creaks in protest—it always does—at the shifting weight.

John would never waste a blessing the likes of  a great deal of Sherlock’s naked skin within easy reach. He treasures the little sounds of pleasure that Sherlock exhales into his mouth at the scratch of John’s blunt nails down the line of Sherlock’s back and over the curve of his arse. Sherlock squirms, slightly ticklish, when John’s fingers move down his thighs and back up, brushing the hairs in the wrong direction. Their kisses grow slow and languid with the movement of John’s hands, until he’s cupping them around Sherlock’s hips and digging in his fingers with a stifled gasp at every deliberate hitching movement Sherlock makes against him. It’s not until John breaks their kiss and looks down, suddenly desperate to see Sherlock’s cock naked against his jeans, that he notices.

“You’re still in your garters,” John says. No matter how many times he’s seen Sherlock removing them (a considerable number, at this point in their relationship) he still finds him mildly amusing that Sherlock wears sock garters at all. The man finds neckties restricting and outdated, but apparently a bit of elastic rendered unnecessary decades ago is fair game.

“Oh.” Sherlock sounds slowed down, pleasantly indolent. “I was hoping you might bind my wrists with them.” He says it so casually, no hint of flirtation; he knows just the suggestion coming from him is enough to make John’s blood rush faster.

“Been looking at websites again, yeah?”

“You’d be surprised at the depth and breadth of fetishes that can be found on the internet.”

“I really wouldn’t,” John says with a laugh.

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise, loathe to actually admit that John’s knowledge equals or surpasses his own on this particular subject.

“You want me in charge, then.” It’s hardly a question. This is familiar territory for them, after all. “We’ll save the garters for another time. I’d rather surprise you.” John has a certain talent for improvisation—a necessity, given his relationship with Sherlock and their shared proclivities. Staying several steps ahead of an easily bored masochist with the biggest brain in London is no small feat.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock says. He slides himself backwards off John’s lap with unfathomable grace. “How do you want me?”

\---

Sherlock’s idea for the evening had been to persuade John to strap his hands above his head and fuck him roughly until he was left gasping, but there is always something to be said for witnessing John’s particular ingenuity. John had Sherlock take his spot in the armchair while he left for supplies, leaving Sherlock alone with his own thoughts and anticipation. He’s not at all close to feeling like his mind is going under just yet, not when they haven’t even begun, but knowing what’s coming makes him sit up straight, present himself with back arched and chin up so that he looks poised and ready to begin when John comes back. He likes to do these things for John without being told.

John returns holding a tie—cream silk with a subtle texture that is very much recognizably tied to a certain memory for them both, one which makes Sherlock narrow his eyes at John on his approach—and something small held in the palm of his hand that Sherlock can’t quite deduce. Seeing that Sherlock must be trying to figure out what it is, John slips it into his pocket and steps forward to place his free hand in Sherlock’s hair.

“Can you do what I ask tonight just because I tell you to?” John’s fingers rake through Sherlock’s hair while he speaks, sending involuntary shivers down Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock’s eyes close in pleasure and he takes a slow breath before he answers.

“Yes.” It’s not always like this. Sometimes Sherlock is feeling less compliant and his submission has to be pulled out of him through pain and praise. Both ways are rewarding, though this one sometimes proves to be the more difficult of the two.

John’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair just short of pain. “Good,” he says. “You’ll move when I tell you to and only then. No talking.”

Ah, now that part is always tricky, controlling his mouth. Sherlock likes it better when John does that for him.

“Can you manage that?”

Sherlock nods, then watches John pull the small object back out of his pocket. He holds it up so that Sherlock can identify it now. The tie pin that he wore in his wedding—of course; Sherlock was slow not to have realized before.

“Hold this between your teeth.”

The look that Sherlock gives him could wither a lesser man—and has done—but they wouldn’t be here if John were a lesser man. Sherlock brushes his lips across John’s knuckles before he parts them obediently.

“You're gorgeous when you're good for me,” John says. His tongue darts over his lower lip, a move as rewarding as the praise itself, and he ducks down to kiss Sherlock one more time before they begin. He's thorough; Sherlock is panting lightly when John pulls away and holds the pin out again for Sherlock to take between his teeth.

The damned thing is tiny, almost impossible to grasp, and the taste of metal against his tongue is revolting, distracting. Sherlock would curse John for inventing this little form of torture if it weren't so perfectly clever. John understands him in the most surprising ways.

"Cover your eyes with this.”

Telling Sherlock not to peek would be insulting to them both. A flare of pleasure goes through Sherlock, tucked away to ruminate upon later, at the knowledge that John does not—would not. _Brilliant John_. Sherlock takes the tie from him, places the widest end over his eyes and ties it snugly around his head. His hands fall to the armrests, waiting.

John is quiet, letting Sherlock adjust to the lack of visual stimulation and building up his anticipation as he can’t simply watch and see what John has in store for him. He positions Sherlock silently, pulling him by his hips forward to the edge of the chair and nudging his knees wide apart with his hands. Sherlock knows he looks obscene right now. Knows John loves to have him displayed that way. There’s the soft swish of denim as John walks a short distance away, followed by the shutter noise of a phone camera, absurdly loud in the quiet of the room to his heightened senses; Sherlock can feel the flush rising on his chest and face at the sound. John’s laugh is soft and pleased and Sherlock can picture his face perfectly. Wishes he could see it. Everything goes silent again after that.

The first spike of adrenaline hits Sherlock when, after an indeterminate amount of waiting, he feels the softest brush of warm air against the side of his neck. His muscles jump and skin prickles, but he holds his position. For John.

John continues soft exhalations _—nearly kisses_ , Sherlock thinks—against the skin of Sherlock's throat and down to his collarbones. Sherlock's nipples tighten in response, a fact not lost on John, who scratches a blunt nail over one then the other, gently at first then gradually harder until he's pinching them between thumb and forefinger, nail digging so sharply that if Sherlock _had_ been bound he would be squirming and tugging against the restraints. Instead his mind goes quiet as all of his considerable attention is focused on keeping his position locked just as John placed him.

“Look at you,” John says reverently. “Don't think I don't know how hard this is for you, and you're doing beautifully.” One hand is stroking soothingly across Sherlock's chest, only occasionally nudging his sore nipples for a brief flash of pain. The other caresses the side of Sherlock's face, brushing gently into his hair.

_Only for you_ , Sherlock would say if he could.

“You're getting there, aren't you? You can nod for me.”

Sherlock does nod. It feels slow, jerky. He's not flying yet, but he's fuzzy around the edges of his consciousness, nerves tingling and alive all over.

“More?”

Sherlock nods again and lets out a soft sigh of affirmation.

“Be still for me again then, love,” John says.

Sherlock takes a deep breath through his nose to steady himself. His jaw aches dully from holding the pin in his mouth, and his other senses begin to creep in when John's hands leave his skin. There's the dull rush of traffic on Baker Street below, one of Mrs Hudson's too-loud programmes on the telly downstairs, the slightly stale scent of the flat (in need of dusting; Mrs Hudson has been more reluctant to just pop in for a cleaning since finding Sherlock naked in the sitting room tied to the hardbacked chair, not because she found it shocking but simply because she knows that her knowledge makes John uncomfortable), the metallic taste that’s altogether taken over his tongue.

Only John makes those things fade away.

Sherlock feels like melting when John begins to touch him again. His mouth again, warm breaths against the skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs then teeth— _yes_ —pressing gently against the sensitive curve of his knee and dragging upwards. It’s deliciously skin-shiveringly ticklish until John begins to actually sink his teeth in: small nips at first, then one long, slow bite to his left inner thigh that grows in intensity until Sherlock swears he can feel the full profile of John’s teeth, slight unevenness of the mandibular incisors, the sharp flared edge of that one maxillary lateral incisor that Sherlock likes to occasionally catch his tongue on whilst kissing but feels like to break the skin right now and he’s—

_Oh god_ —

He’s leaning right into it, welcoming the pain while a low whine makes its way deep from his chest, even with his mouth clasped tightly around the pin. Sherlock’s chest is heaving by the time John draws away.

“Lovely mark,” John says, then slaps his hand over it, hard. “Can’t wait for you to see it.”

The bites that follow don’t go as deeply as that, but they _hurt_ , especially when John’s mouth moves quick and hard, sending a shock of adrenaline through Sherlock at the sudden pain, always followed by a soothing brush of lips. John moves upwards until his exhalations are directly over Sherlock’s cock—still hard—and Sherlock can feel himself pulse with every breath John releases against him.

It’s a shock when he feels John’s tongue on his skin, laving at the root of Sherlock’s cock and onto his testicles. It doesn’t take long before John’s teeth are there again, clasping and dragging skin in a way that makes Sherlock’s heart pound. John wouldn’t hurt Sherlock any more than he could handle, but oh, he _could_. Just the pain of John worrying that sensitive flesh between his teeth is enough to drag another whine from Sherlock, followed by a low, deep moan when John chomps down viciously at the junction of thigh and groin and leaves Sherlock throbbing when he pulls away.

Sherlock’s blood is singing again, thrumming full of endorphins, when John begins to stroke him, working his hands in long, slow swipes over Sherlock’s abused thighs.

“You should see your face when you let me hurt you,” John murmurs. “Christ, I think about it all the time; I’ll remember it even when I’m so old I can hardly remember anything else.” He brings his hands up to hold Sherlock’s head steady, kisses the corners of his mouth. “I can’t think of anything more amazing than you letting me take that brilliant mind of yours and slow it down, pull it apart.”

Sherlock would nod if John told him he could. It’s okay; John knows he agrees.

\---

John takes a moment to admire his handiwork. Sherlock is flushed beautifully, mottled red from his upper belly through his chest and neck, thighs peppered with slowly fading bites and that one lovely livid bruise that will bear John’s teeth marks well into tomorrow—if not longer. Sherlock’s legs are still just as John positioned them, thighs spread, and it’s gratifying to know that his influence doesn’t extend only to Sherlock’s mind. John can take control of his body as well, have him taut and trembling, crying out in pain, but still not moving just because John has told him he can’t. The gold of John's tie pin is just faintly visible between the line of Sherlock's plush lips and Christ, John never could have imagined years ago being able to keep Sherlock quiet just through his own will. He knows better now just what Sherlock will do for him because John’s told him to.

“You’re going to take a bit of a break now,” John says, voice warm. “We’re not done, but I don’t want you getting stiff on me. You can spit that out.” He holds a hand cupped under Sherlock’s chin and catches the pin as it falls. His mouth is left hanging open just slightly, and John slips two fingers in, which Sherlock begins to suck with a slow hunger. Sherlock is deliciously pliant in the wake of pain and would take so well to having his throat fucked right now, but John has had something else in mind since they began. John pulls his fingers out and bends down to kiss Sherlock once more.

“I’m leaving the room for a moment. Stretch your jaw and everything else for me while I’m gone, but don’t leave the chair. You can sit however you like.”

Sherlock makes a low humming noise of understanding and immediately rotates his jaw and his neck. John watches him stretch for a few moments longer, the graceful ripple of Sherlock’s muscles at each movement setting off a fierce feeling of pride and possession within John. Sherlock is _his_ , all of him, and John loves to remind him.

There’s more of that to be done tonight. John retreats to their bedroom to gather a few supplies.

When John returns to the sitting room he’s struck by the thought that Sherlock doesn’t need to see you to know you’re staring at him.

Who else could be so cocky as to put himself on display like this—just for John’s benefit—whilst naked and blindfolded? While John was gone he rearranged himself, one arm stretched languorously behind his head and legs crossed casually at the knee. He couldn't have framed the bite on his thigh more perfectly if he'd removed the blindfold to have a look at the positioning. John knows Sherlock didn’t, only because John didn’t tell him he could.

John can’t imagine what it’s like, feeling that comfortable in his own skin. The closest he’s ever come is when he’s with Sherlock, when he sees what he can do to that body, to that mind—it’s difficult not to feel utterly at ease when fully in command of something as powerful, beautiful, and dangerous as all of Sherlock Holmes.

_Enough introspection for one evening_ , John thinks. He’s a man of action, and he’s watched Sherlock long enough. Still, Sherlock looks like a work of art; John takes another photo on his phone to remember it later.

“We all know how bloody gorgeous you are, no need to show off,” John says. He can tell by the arch of Sherlock’s brow and the twist of his mouth that he’s dying to remind John that he _is_ a showoff.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” John adds. “Relax and spread your legs for me now.” He sinks to his knees in front of Sherlock, and once Sherlock has placed his feet back flat on the floor, John grasps his hips and slides him forward to the edge of the chair. “Lean back,” John instructs, and guides Sherlock until his torso is nearly horizontal in the seat and his arse hangs off the edge. With Sherlock’s thighs splayed it leaves the cleft of his arse open, and John slides two slick fingers back and forth over Sherlock’s hole before pressing them in. Sherlock lets out a low, throaty moan and clenches down around him. John knows Sherlock’s limits well, and quickly follows his fingers with a plug.

Thanks to the happy discovery that Sherlock very much enjoys things in his arse, they have quite an array of plugs to choose from. John’s picked one that he knows pushes Sherlock to the edge and keeps him there: girthy and angled in a way that Sherlock can feel with every movement while he has it in (John had him narrate the process of wearing it once; one of his better ideas).

Sherlock takes a few deep, shuddering breaths on insertion but opens up gorgeously, plug sliding right in and eliciting a whimper as he’s breeched by the widest point.

“Fuck, you’re a champ, taking it just like that,” John says, awed, pressing down on the base of the plug until Sherlock gasps. “You always do—so good. Sit back up for me.” John gives Sherlock a smart tap on his arse cheek and waits until he’s upright again before crowding back into his space. John’s nearly in Sherlock’s lap as he kisses him, hard and demanding with his hand pressed just a shade too tightly against Sherlock’s throat while John holds him steady. John reaches between them while he kisses Sherlock, grasps his cock and gives it a few firm strokes until he can feel Sherlock panting into his mouth. When John pull away he can see Sherlock’s hands clench, knows he wants to touch himself.

“You can move all you like with that in,” John says, “but you won’t come until I let you.” John reaches up to untie the blindfold and is rewarded with a soft and slightly unfocused look of adoration while Sherlock blinks against the light. God, how this man loves what John does to him.

“Still good, love?” John lets the tie fall to the floor and cups his hand under Sherlock’s chin, maintaining eye contact with him and stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip until Sherlock brushes a kiss against it.

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock answers softly. It’s not technically breaking the rule against speaking, so John allows it.

“I want you to watch me now, then.” John pulls Sherlock’s leather chair closer towards his own chair and takes a seat. Their knees are nearly touching like this. John leaves his jeans on, just undoes the flies and takes his cock from his boxers. He’s been half hard for most of the scene but ignored the discomfort. He’s fully erect now, watching Sherlock watch his fist move on his cock hungrily. Now that he’s actually touching himself John feels alarmingly close, the arousal from everything he’s done to Sherlock washing over him at once. He’s not ready for it to be over yet.

“Do you think you can get me off without leaving that chair?” John smiles because he knows if Sherlock weren’t so far gone he’d have something smart to say. Instead he just nods and licks his lips.

\---

Their chairs aren’t really close enough for this, but John is sitting close to the edge of his and Sherlock _does_ have rather long legs. He’d rather have his hands on John, or his mouth, but there’s also a certain thrill in doing whatever John has asked of him, even if it’s something Sherlock finds personally ungratifying. He’s certainly never had a thing for feet, doesn’t believe John does either. It always comes down to control.

The only issue is that the rocking motion as he rubs his sock-clad foot over John’s erection is going directly to the plug in his arse. John is a perfect sadist. He chose this one on purpose—it’s nudging Sherlock’s prostate relentlessly and he can feel his cock twitch with every movement, just on the edge of too much. He’s almost afraid of how hard he’s going to come whenever John decides he’s allowed.

“Fuck, _Sherlock_ ,” John groans. He’s doing most of the work himself, honestly. Sherlock slides his toes and the ball of his foot over the head of John’s cock, but John is stroking himself with his hand—fingers just barely meeting around the girth in a way that will make Sherlock’s mouth water until the end of time—and occasionally holding Sherlock’s foot steady with his free hand to rut against Sherlock’s sensitive instep. Sherlock likes feeling used this way.

“Going to make such a mess of you,” John mutters, and it makes Sherlock’s heart thud faster. John marking him, leaving him filthy, _yes_ , _always_. He can feel John’s cock pulse against him but he’s still shocked by the first warm spurt of semen seeping through the thin fabric of his dress socks to meet his skin. Sherlock attempts to drum his toes against the head of John’s cock whilst he’s still coming, but John laughs breathlessly and grabs them—God, the _mess_ —then smears semen down Sherlock’s foot to the heel with his hand and softening erection. The sensation is ticklish, wet, and strangely erotic. Sherlock will never be able to file it away properly in his catalogue of sexual experiences.

Even though Sherlock is no longer rocking against the plug he can’t stop clenching around it, shifting his hips minutely chasing _just enough_ and not too much.

“You must be getting desperate,” John says.

Sherlock shoots him a look to say _obviously_.

“Mm. Let’s get you cleaned up first.” Torture artist. Sherlock loves him fiercely. He’s surfaced quite a bit from subspace in the absence of endorphins flooding his system but he’s still thrumming, _alive_.

John reaches up to undo Sherlock’s garter and rolls down the thoroughly debauched sock, which he tosses in the direction of the kitchen where it’s most likely to land on a stain impervious surface. Sherlock gives him the other foot unprompted and John does the same, then uses Sherlock’s clean(er) sock to wipe off his come-slick hand and the still damp sole of Sherlock’s foot before it joins the other in the kitchen.

“You said something about using these on your wrists, didn’t you?” John asks. Rhetorical. He hasn’t allowed Sherlock to speak yet anyway. Sherlock pulls his feet out of John’s lap for balance and holds his wrists forward. “You’ve done so well,” John says. He wraps Sherlock’s wrists in the elastic garters while he speaks, forming a solid knot with an open loop. “I did think I might trip you up just then, but even at your slowest you’re never slow. So good for me. You can speak from now; I want to hear you when I’m making you come.” John stands and sheds his clothes in a heap on the sitting room floor, then hooks a finger in the loop around Sherlock’s wrists to lead him to their bedroom.

Walking there is like time trapped and wading slowly through honey, with his prostate stimulated so brutally that Sherlock feels like he’s leaking precome with every step. Too much. Not enough.

“You’re a magnificent bastard,” Sherlock says when John settles him onto the bed and hooks his wrists above his head. The hardware they’ve installed above the bed is at a height that stretches Sherlock’s arms just beyond the point of comfort.

John chuckles. “That almost sounds like a complaint.” He doesn’t wait for Sherlock to answer before wrapping his mouth around Sherlock’s erection and sinking slowly down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock hisses. “You know it”—his breath hitches—“it isn’t.”

John answers him with deep, strong suction that has Sherlock writhing because he’s so close one more pull would—

John slides off Sherlock’s cock with a wet slurp and Sherlock knows exactly why his hands are bound above his head when he jerks his wrists futily. John’s fingers move to the plug between Sherlock’s legs, giving it a hard push inside him.

“Do you think we can make you come from prostate stimulation alone?”

Sherlock snarls because John knows very well that’s an arduous undertaking best accomplished by John’s cock in him, not a maddening bit of silicone that will always be just short of enough.

“Not going to talk after all?”

“You’re awful.”

“And you enjoy it.” John takes Sherlock in his mouth again, swallows around his cock for just a fleeting moment, and once again pulls off.

“ _John_.” Sherlock only hopes his voice sounds firm rather than petulant.

“How many times could I do that, do you think?”

“Enough to drive me mad.”

“Ah, well. That I’d rather not do.” He flashes Sherlock a fairly self-satisfied grin from between his thighs, then bites down hard right over the still starkly visible outline of his teeth on Sherlock’s skin.

The pain makes Sherlock’s body go taut, but it’s followed by the tight wet heat of John’s mouth, tongue swiping Sherlock’s fraenulum in quick pulses while John’s nails dig into Sherlock’s arse cheeks and his thumbs fuck the base of the plug into him. It’s altogether too much and Sherlock lets out choked off sob as he comes. John, never one for mercy, sucks him through it until the over stimulation wrenches a whine from deep in Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s in a haze while John unfastens his wrists, turns down the duvet, and beckons for Sherlock to roll onto his side. Once he does, John tucks himself behind Sherlock, thigh to thigh and groin nestled against Sherlock’s arse, planting kisses between his shoulder blades.

“You were fantastic,” John says, pulling Sherlock close with an arm around his chest. “Just gorgeous.”

All of it is amazing, his brilliant John dragging things from Sherlock he never knew he had within him and would give to no one else. But this is what he lives for, the after. Heart rate slowing while wrapped in John’s arms, those same sure hands on him, easing him down gently from a high that they built together.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. It’s not enough, but John knows what he means.


End file.
